


Neutered Fruit

by SinkingSims



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cabin Fic, Fluff without Plot, M/M, featuring a couple hcs for Drunk jonmartin, just soft and loving, kissing and yearning, small drabble requested by a friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23087446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinkingSims/pseuds/SinkingSims
Summary: In the absence of each other’s mouths Jon decides to use up a week’s worth of hot water and Martin decides to memorize a decade’s worth of blemishes on the cabin’s ceiling.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 5
Kudos: 194





	Neutered Fruit

**Author's Note:**

> CW for mention of alcohol, obviously.

There’s a lot to see in the Highlands. 

There’s the boreal forests of spruce and pine which border the fields of deep, lush green like a natural property line, although neither of them know exactly where those man-made lines fall. The rise and fall of the land in smooth gentle slopes becomes sharper and steeper the further they crane their eyes, squinting down the horizon near sunrise or sunset where the tallest of the mountains cast stark shadows against the yellow and orange tinted skies. 

There’s the cows, of course, grazing contentedly just barely out of arm’s reach when one or both of them make their way down the dusty, barely-there path to the tiny hardly-a-village nearby. There’s other fauna too, at this time of year. Of particular note are the small brown rabbits and larger brown-grey hares that bolt too and from their burrows and never get too close. Sometimes they’ll stop dead for a moment in the hopes of catching a glimpse of one nervously darting about, but neither ever catch more than a blur of fur or a twitch of ears before they’re gone again. Daisy keeps hunting gear in the cabin, guns and traps and knives that the both of them would rather pretend weren’t there. They’d rather let the rabbits run. 

There’s much less to see in the safe-house itself. 

But there is a place beneath a creaking floorboard which hides a couple bottles of old whiskey, sweet and full-bodied malt that the North is famous for, although neither of them have much of a taste for it. And there is time, lots and lots of time. So one rainy evening when hunger and isolation threaten to consume them they take it out on the whiskey instead.

When they’re teetering and silly and comfortable Martin brings up childhood, apropos of nothing, and together they take stock of all the things they did and didn’t do as kids. The list of havents is longer than the haves in both their cases, with some noticeable overlap, particularly in their teenage years. Jon toys absently with the empty bottle on the floor between them and Martin asks―has he ever played? Jon grimaces because _of course not_ , the thought of physical contact with a stranger contrived through the flimsy excuse of a game is entirely beyond him. 

_ Me neither  _ Martin admits and spins it sloppily, the glass echoing loudly as it pirouettes until it loses momentum, the neck of it aimed at neither of them. 

_ Hm  _ Jon says and reaches to turn its open mouth towards him as a flimsy excuse to lean forward and place a closed-mouth kiss on Martin’s, who eagerly returns it. 

_ Good thing we aren’t strangers _ Martin teases, and kisses him again.

_ Right. _

Jon crawls closer to hold Martin’s freckled face in his scarred hands and Martin takes to grabbing a fistful of Jon’s t-shirt in one of his, the other gripping his side like a lifeline. Martin opens his mouth for him and Jon does the same, both awkward and out of practice but drunk enough not to care. Jon takes to combing fingers into Martin’s curls, securing an angle that makes it easy to kiss languidly until they’re both a little bit dizzy and more than a little bit turned on. It’s only when Martin moves to run a hand through Jon’s hair, a bit of a tangled mess hanging loosely down his back, does Jon finally pull away, embarrassed by the state of it. 

When Jonathan Sims gets drunk he likes two things most of all. One is a hot shower, just shy of scalding. The other is to hum softly to himself the old songs his grandmother used to play on her record player when they cooked together in his youth. He likes the feel of the vibration in his throat and on his lips and he can almost picture himself there, her exasperated sighs when he asked her where each ingredient came from and she said “the  _ store,  _ Jon.” It never stopped him from asking, and it never stopped her from insisting he partake in this ritual, the closest they ever got to a family tradition.

When Martin Blackwood gets drunk he likes two things most of all. One is to strip down to nothing but his underwear and lay flat on his back, limbs spread out wide atop his bed-sheets, staring at the ceiling. He likes the smooth, chilling feeling of the linens on his bare skin and he can just about take himself wherever he’d like to go with quiet breaths and relaxed muscles. A simple ritual, but cathartic. The other is to listen to something that will make him cry, so that he knows he still can. 

In the absence of each other’s mouths Jon decides to use up a week’s worth of hot water and Martin decides to memorize a decade’s worth of blemishes on the cabin’s ceiling. The steaming heat of the water makes Jon feel alive in an achingly human way, and he hums to himself, a pleasant stim to the tune of that silly wartime song his grandmother played until the record wore out. The silken chill of the bed-sheets makes Martin feel real, for once, and he fixes his eyes from one small crack to another, one spot of discoloration to the next, bringing himself into a meditative state. 

It’s not enough to draw out the raw emotion he so desperately needs to feel. He remembers his old iPod and earphones, stuffed into his travel bag last minute, finds the battery somehow not yet dead, and lets it shuffle. He thinks about Jon and the way the water probably rolls off his bare skin and how it would soak his hair, probably a heavy weight against his back now. The song changes. 

_ I ate flowers in the backyard _

_ A finely neutered fruit _

The rain continues to fall, drop after drop hitting the small window near the bed and rolling down past where his eyes can see. His eyes remain stubbornly dry and the sheets have begun to warm against his own body heat. He feels like he’s sinking. He wonders if the rabbits are safe and dry. Can their burrows flood? Can it all just collapse, leaving them shivering and soaking?

_ Don’t run _

_ Don’t run little rabbit run _

He turns off the iPod and tosses it to the side. This isn’t working. In a sudden panic, he worries maybe he’s lost this part of himself entirely, caught in the furling fog and dragged out by the sea during high tide. Then he hears the humming, deep and low but just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the shower. He cranes his neck to make out the tune, unsuccessfully. But there’s a lot to hear in Jon’s tone, a soft cadence that sounds like a secret not meant for him. Then the water is shut off and the curtain moves back. The humming stops only to be replaced with words and Martin decides the best-kept secrets are the ones you can still share with those you love.

_ Run rabbit run rabbit  _

_ Run run run  _

Jon sings just loudly enough and Martin cries just softly enough and they’re both thinking  _ my god, he’s beautiful _ . The alcohol doesn’t help them say it out loud when Jon emerges from the dingy bathroom with dripping hair and Martin quickly wipes the tears from his cheeks but it lets them feel it. They both lay on their sides in the bed, facing each other with legs pulled up and knees just barely touching. Jon, red-faced from the shower or the alcohol or both, rests one small hand on Martin’s cheek, red from crying or the alcohol or both. They’re both thinking  _ my god, you’re beautiful  _ and the alcohol still doesn’t help them say it but it lets them feel it and tonight that’s enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> Song lyrics from "Neutered Fruit" by St. Vincent and "Run Rabbit Run" which is an old song that was quite popular during the WWII era. I was looking for ideas of songs Jon might have heard from his grandmother a lot growing up, and someone suggested that one, and I liked it, so here we are.


End file.
